


hold me tight

by 51stCenturyFox



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Romantic Friendship, Team Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-16
Updated: 2014-09-16
Packaged: 2018-02-17 15:51:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2315036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/51stCenturyFox/pseuds/51stCenturyFox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not just anybody gets to cuddle the Black Widow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hold me tight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kyburg](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyburg/gifts).



\- three days ago -

“You think the public realizes that we sit around and watch shitty movies together on our down time, like a bunch of college kids?” Bruce asks, and Tony shakes his head.

“Nah. They probably think that the Avengers exist in suspended animation between missions.” He nudges Steve. “No offense. As for me, I’m in charge of a billion-dollar company and everybody knows I’m always out partying with supermodels and getting pussy-”

“-whipped by your fiancee,” Rhodey finishes with a grin, chucking Tony’s shoulder. Tony rolls his eyes and jerks as his Starkphone vibrates.

“Speak of the angel,” he says, and retreats to the bar to take the call.

“Sorry, that was crude, but point made,” Rhodey says. “Man about town, my ass. Maybe three years ago.”

“Watching films is very popular,” Thor says after a moment. “But is it college students who do this the most?”

“Nah,” Bruce grabs a handful of spicy nuts and crosses a leg across his lap. “Sure. I mean, everybody except the worst kind of cinesnob watches shitty movies sometimes, but it reminds me of hanging out in the common room in the dorm watching Predator on VHS.” 

“Predator is _not_ a shitty movie, dude,” Clint says, and everyone nods except Natasha, who's dubious. “I didn’t have the whole college dorm experience, but I watched Predator stoned with a couple of cirkies. Ha, amazing that I remember that. Because I was stoned.” 

“I was already working at Stark Industries when that one came out,” says Tony, stuffing his phone back in his pants pocket as he sits on one of the sofas. “When I was at MIT I had movie nights alone because nobody wanted to hang out with a skinny little 14-year-old.”

Thor pats Tony’s back comfortingly, and he preens. 

“Oh shut the hell up, Tony,” Rhodey scoffs. “Don’t listen to him, guys. Tony had an unlimited allowance and pyrotechnic-building ability. Plus, access to a weapons lab. He was extremely popular at MIT.”

“Supermodels,” Tony says. 

“Not _that_ popular.” 

“I didn’t go to an American college and I missed the Predator experience,” Natasha says. “I’ve always been out of the loop when it comes to peer pop culture.”

“I have also missed this experience,” Thor tells her with a wink, making room for her to sit between him and the arm of the sofa. 

"JARVIS, you heard the god. Put on Predator," Tony orders. 

An hour in, Thor's and Natasha's heads are tucked together and she finds herself stroking the wrist draped along her upper arm. 

It’s very, very nice.

 

\- before - 

Everyone, but everyone, hates Doom. But everyone hates Doombots more. 

Well, they’re Doom’s fault in the first place, but still. Hate.

They’re exhausted, bruised, and broken after nine solid hours of fighting the bastards in Chicago, and on the Quinjet headed home. Clint’s piloting; he’s the least tired. Bruce is slumped in the navigator’s seat, Tony’s suit is stuck on, thanks to a mysterious murky fluid affecting the joints, and Thor and Cap are slumped in the back. Natasha boards the plane last, hand pressing a makeshift bandage hard to the long cut along her forearm. It’ll leave a scar, she thinks, but it’s mostly almost stopped bleeding, at least.

Cap sits up to heft himself from his seat. “I’ll cop a squat. Take my seat, Widow.”

“Chivalry is not dead,” Tony remarks tinnily from behind his helmet.

“Death doesn’t sound so bad right now,” Cap mutters, wincing.

Natasha shakes her head. “It’s not necessary to move. Sit, Cap. You’re hurt, too.”

“I’ll be fine,” he says, but Thor pushes him back to his seat. “Here, Natasha,” he says. Silently, she perches in his lap. It’s not comfortable at first, but the rumble of the jet streaking homeward through the night sky is like a balm, and Thor takes over the pressure on her wounded arm. 

Natasha sighs into the plush red of his cape and lets herself drift to sleep.

She wakes to a different movement; Thor’s walking, her legs hooked over his arm. He settles her on a chair in her room, tears open her sleeve, and cleans and dresses her injury. The next thing she does is wake up fully, realizing he’d removed her boots for her. 

 

 

\- before that - 

They’re supposed to be a married couple at a timeshare sale seminar that’s actually a cover for laundering terrorist funds, and that means there’s one bed in their complimentary hotel room. 

“It’s fine. I’m not tired,” Natasha says. 

“Nor am I,” Thor replies. He takes off the tweed jacket he’s wearing and tosses it on the bed with a look of disdain.

Natasha raises a brow. “Not your style?”

“It is... _scratchy_.” He leans over and reaches into the breast pocket, pulling out a boxed deck of cards. “Let us do this instead of sleeping.”

They play into the night, laughing over the tiny bottles from the minibar lined up like soldiers along the nightstand. 

Natasha wakes tucked under Thor’s bulk, and her stirring wakes him too. He’s fallen asleep with his arm around her and his face pressed against the sports coat and his cheek bears a slight imprint of Harris tweed. Grumbling, he sits up the rest of the way, pulls the jacket off the bed and tosses it to the floor in a wadded heap.

“Take it back to the Tower when the mission’s over,” Natasha teases. “We’ll burn it.”

 

\- tonight - 

She regrets knocking even as her hand leaves the door the first time, but she taps again and stays where she is.

Thor, sleep-tired in a deep blue robe, blinks at her. “Is everything all right?” he asks.

“Yes. Yes it is. I just…” she can’t speak and she can’t ask, and this was a whim. She should apologize for disturbing Thor’s rest, but before she can, his hand comes up and curls around her own.

“Come,” he says, and she lets herself be pulled past the low hum of his darkened kitchen and the dark shapes and shadows of his living room, to a room of low light and a warm and rumpled bed. “Come to sleep,” he says, spreading his arms in offering.

Natasha accepts.


End file.
